


9.81 Meters Per Second

by Bones (thepiesandthebees)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, Castiel Gets His Memories Back, Feudal Japan, Irish Industrial Revolution, M/M, Reincarnation, Soulmates, Sumer, Top Castiel, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:10:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3451739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepiesandthebees/pseuds/Bones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel finds an angelic book in the bunker library. When he activates the mysterious sigil within, memories he never knew he had arise. He dreams of his life 5,000 years in the past, in order to discover the history he lost and what that means for him in the present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Standing on the Edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will probably be a long fic. Based on my outlines, it'll likely end up being anywhere between 90-300k--depending on how much research I feel like doing for the historical parts of the story. This fic will also be extremely verbal. (I mean, I tend to write a lot of dialogue, but I'm talking a lot of dialogue with different accents and languages.) With that in mind, I'd like to give you guys the option of listening to me read the story aloud. I would break the audio into chapters, which would be posted on my tumblr, and I'd be able to add sound effects and such. You'd be able to hear me pronounce the non-English words/names, as well as hear me do various accents. If that sounds appealing, let me know in the comments, or shoot me a note on my tumblr @thesarcasticpan.

Silence pervades the bunker. Fluorescent light shines from the bulbs overhead, illuminating some of the shadows in between the rows of bookshelves. Castiel scans the Men of Letters’ library thoroughly. His movements make no sound, so as not to disturb Dean or Sam who are getting in their four hours. He doesn’t believe that his shuffling through the library could actually wake them through the concrete walls, but he doesn’t want to risk it or break the quiet.

On the top shelf of the section concerning angels is a worn, black book with gold Enochian embossed in the spine. It’s written in an ancient script no longer used in heaven, but Castiel knows the single word immediately. “Qafsiel,” he mumbles to himself, his lips forming the word easily, as if they’ve known it forever. He pulls the book off the shelf and opens it.

The first page has a sigil. Castiel recognizes it, but he can’t remember where he’s seen it before or what it means. The main circle contains intricate, winding designs that are nothing like the angular symbols used in most sigils. An inscription beneath the unknown sigil is in the same ancient Enochian, but Castiel translates it easily yet again. _The Gift of Thought_ , it reads.

Abruptly, the book seems heavier. Castiel’s head throbs, and his hands burn where they touch the book. But as if compelled by an unseen force, he flips through the pages. They’re all blank.

“The Gift of Thought,” he mumbles as he returns to the sigil. His angel blade drops from his sleeve and into his hand. He sets the book on the floor and sits before it. A buzz is running through his head, muddling his thoughts. He cuts a line across his palm and places his hand over the sigil.

The light is blinding. It bursts out from the sigil and burns through Castiel’s eyes, shooting into his mind. Voices fill his ears—most long forgotten, some familiar. He screams as pain sears through him. All at once, pieces of his soul he never knew were damaged heal; barriers he never knew were within him shatter.

“Cas!” a familiar voice calls out. Castiel turns his head weakly toward Dean’s blurry form just as it becomes a bright, red glow. A soul he knows, that he’s always known.

“Solitude,” he rasps. Then the world shifts. Or maybe he’s falling.

The floor hits him hard.

“Cas?” Dean’s face comes into view, but his soul is all Castiel can see. “Cas? What’s wrong?”

“Dean! Cas!” Sam’s voice is urgent. His form appears beside Dean. “What happened?” He glances away. “Did he activate some sigil? Where did that book come from?”

“I don’t know. I just heard him yelling. He sounded like he was in pain.”

A soft flutter of wings precedes the blinding, gold light of an archangel’s soul appearing. Sam’s eyes widen. “Gabriel? You’re alive? What the hell—?”

“We can discuss that later,” Gabriel interrupts. His voice, usually sing-song and teasing, is hard and serious. He kneels beside his brother. “Castiel?” His hand, warm and firm, grips his brother’s shoulder. “What have you gotten yourself into now?”

The pain in Castiel’s soul is gradually fading, and something dark and heavy weighs on him. “Forgive me, Jibrail.”

Gabriel goes rigid. “What did you call me?”

Castiel wants to answer, but his eyes can no longer stay open.

“Cas?” Dean says, voice growing distant. “Cas!”

#

Ripples distorted the black waters of the Viewing Pond. They grew from seemingly random spots on the surface and spread out until they covered the entire Pond. Archangel Qafsiel sat beside the Pond on its white stone edge. Lush plant life surrounded it, grasses and wild flowers covering the ground. Trees lined the small clearing where the Pond resided. It was silent, as it always was. The sun was lowering, but plenty of light still filled the Garden of Harmony.

Qafsiel watched the ripples curiously. He could still see the whole of humanity in the Pond, and he could feel its struggles. But something was different.

 _The water is unclear_ , a gentle Voice said with neither the low pitch of a male, nor the high pitch of a female.

Qafsiel dipped his hand into the Pond. The water stilled immediately, becoming glassy, as it should have. The image of a newborn baby in his mother’s arms appeared on the water’s surface. “The soul has upset the balance of the world...yet again.” Qafsiel stared at the baby, recognizing its bright, red soul. “The Soul of Solitude.”

The Voice chuckled. _You have given it a title?_

“The soul, in all its incarnations, has been prone to solitude, and so prone to me. It is a strong soul—loyal and brave in all its lives, but also deeply sad. I think, perhaps, it is missing something.”

_The soul is whole, my child, as are all the souls I create, but it also yearns for something, which I have denied it until now._

“And what have you denied it, Father?”

_You will discover that in time. For now, you will look over this child. He is your prophet, your ward, and your future._

“My future?”

 _As you have been drawn to the soul, so will it be drawn to you. But you must experience these things for yourself. Be courageous, my child._ The presence of God faded, and Qafsiel was left to his lonesome again, staring at the the Soul of Solitude’s new form. The soul had a sibling soul, whom it would meet in every incarnation either as a brother, sister, or close friend. Both souls had a tendency to upset the world’s natural balance, but the Soul of Solitude was profoundly more inclined to seclude itself in its lives. Qafsiel had always wondered why. Perhaps he would get his answer soon.

Jibrail flew into the Garden, assumedly from the Tree of Souls. He was tasked with ensuring souls were regularly reincarnated through the Tree in the form of red fruit. He must have just picked the fruit containing the Soul of Solitude and given it to Lailah for her to place into a body. “I felt Father’s presence,” Jibrail said. “Did He speak with you?”

Qafsiel glanced back at his fellow archangel and older brother. Jibrail was the second eldest of the seven archangels and had a knack for mischief and comedy that most other angels frowned upon. Qafsiel was one of the few who appreciated and even encouraged his brother’s sense of humor. Perhaps that was why they had been the closest of friends for millions of years.

“Father has given me responsibility of the new prophet,” Qafsiel said and returned to staring at the newborn baby’s image in the Pond.

Jibrail looked into the Pond. His massive, golden wings fluttered in surprise at seeing the child. “I didn’t think He would choose your Soul of Solitude.”

“He said this soul is my future. What do you think He meant?”

Jibrail shrugged, a distinctly human gesture. It didn’t quite suit an angel, who appeared as a monochromatic being of energy with vaguely human characteristics. In Jibrail’s case, he had chosen a form that resembled a human male, composed of glowing, golden soul energy. Qafsiel had a soft blue form resembling a male stockier than his brother’s lean figure, but it was all a matter of personal preference. Angels were genderless and sexless, but many had adopted human ideas and characteristics after spending so much time on Earth.

“I don’t know what Father plans,” Jibrail muttered. “After all this time, I’ve accepted that He is impossible to figure out.”

“Perhaps that is best.” Qafsiel clenched his hands into fists as a wave of humanity’s sorrow swept through him. War was on the rise.

Jibrail frowned. “Mikhail and Rafil are worried about you.” He sat beside his brother. “They think observing humanity and experiencing its emotions for so long have made you emotional.”

Qafsiel turned to his brother. “You say that as if angels are naturally incapable of feeling emotion.”

Jibrail regarded his brother amusedly. “You mean we’re not actually stiff, unfeeling statues like Rafil?”

Qafsiel chuckled. “He would attempt to smite you, if he ever heard you say that.”

“I’m much too charming to smite.”

Qafsiel shook his head with a smile, not caring if it was a human mannerism.

Jibrail suddenly grew serious. “Mikhail and Rafil really are worried about your emotional attachment to humanity.”

Qafsiel looked into the Pond. “I do not wish to contest my older brothers’ beliefs about emotions, but did our Father not say to love His creations? They are perfect in their imperfections, and perhaps, I have grown to appreciate them more than our siblings because I have seen what they are capable of.” Qafsiel dipped his hand in the Pond. The water shifted, dissolving the image of the newborn prophet. Scenes of humans kissing, hugging, cuddling, laughing, chatting, and crying together filled the water’s surface. “What do you see, Jibrail?”

The older archangel stared at the scenes. “Humans expressing various emotions.”

“Have you ever wondered why they’re so expressive with each other?” Qafsiel dragged his hand through the water. The resulting ripples distorted the scenes, and they shifted to an image of a group of humans standing amid bloody bodies. The living humans held spears and knives in their hands, blood-soaked forms standing tall. “What do you see now?”

Jibrail grimaced. “Needless bloodshed.”

“Maybe, but these humans are no different than the ones I showed you earlier.” Qafsiel withdrew his hand. The water returned to a glassy black. “The warriors will return home to their families and friends whom they saved from massacre. Are they wrong for killing to protect their loved ones? Would you not kill to protect your siblings? And is that not an expression of emotion?”

Jibrail frowned and didn’t answer.

“If there is anything I have learned from watching humans, it is that they are not much different from us. They feel pain, sorrow, joy, excitement, and at the heart of it all is a deep love for life. It is the nature of all souls to love, but that also means we become sad when love is not returned, or it is destroyed. Sometimes we feel anger for a loss of love. Sometimes we feel fear. They are all natural experiences, and not exclusive to humanity. In other words, they’re an experience of the soul.”

Jibrail stared at his brother a long moment in silence, looking both troubled and intrigued. “I have thought as much from time to time, but Mikhail and Rafil would not accept such sentiments.”

“The others can think what they will, but I do not believe our Father gave us the ability to think with the expectation that we would never have thoughts. That would be asinine. We have a mind; we must use it.”

Jibrail smiled in amusement. “I can’t decide if you’re blasphemous or the most faithful of us all.”

“Perhaps I’m both.” Qafsiel skimmed his fingers over the Pond’s surface. The ripples formed the image of the newborn prophet. “Blind faith is for those who were not gifted with thought.”

#

Castiel gasps awake and sits up, holding his head in his hands. Everything aches. He feels as though his soul has been broken apart and glued back together. At least, he’s sitting on something soft, maybe a bed.

“Cas?” a gentle voice says.

He opens his eyes and turns his head. Dean sits in a chair beside the bed, bright red soul glowing. Dark circles rim his hazel eyes, and his hair is mussed slightly. Without thinking, Castiel throws his arms around Dean. He’s real. He’s solid. This isn’t a dream.

Dean stiffens. “Cas? What—?”

“I don’t want to remember,” Castiel rasps. “I don’t want to remember anymore. Bad things happen. I don’t want to remember it.”

Slowly, Dean wraps his arms around the angel. “It’s okay.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“A couple hours.”

Castiel pulls away enough to look at Dean’s face. “You look tired. Didn’t you sleep?”

Dean shakes his head. “I couldn’t.”

A horrible feeling worms its way into Castiel’s chest, as he’s suddenly struck by the idea that Dean will disappear. He holds onto him again. “Don’t go away.”

Dean pats the angel’s back. “I’m not going anywhere. What happened to you?”

“He gave himself his memories back,” a light voice says. “Or at least, he’s trying to get them back.”

Castiel looks up from Dean’s shoulder to see his older brother standing in the doorway. “Jibrail? You’re alive?” He pulls away from Dean as Gabriel walks in.

“I’d be a terrible trickster if I couldn’t fake my own death.” Gabriel sits at the foot of Castiel’s bed. “What do you remember, Castiel? Or should I call you Qafsiel?”

“I...don’t know.” Castiel’s head throbs the more he tries to make sense of what he’s seen. “Was it real, Jibrail? The Viewing Pond? Being an archangel?” He looks at Dean and again sees that bright, red soul. “The Soul of Solitude?”

Gabriel’s expression is a mix of somber and pleased. “Just tell me what you remember.”

Castiel takes a deep breath. Even if the act is useless to an angel, it is comforting. “I was at the Viewing Pond. Father came to me and showed me the new prophet, who had the Soul of Solitude. He said the child would be my ward and my future.”

Gabriel has a thoughtful look. “And then I visited you, and you showed me how we’re not that different from humans.”

Castiel’s eyes widen. “So it wasn’t a dream?”

Gabriel has a smile that Castiel has only seen on his brother a handful of times—though he can’t remember when those times were. The smile is bright and gentle and honest. “No, I don’t think you were dreaming. I mean, you haven’t called me 'Jibrail' in 5,000 years, and you stopped calling me a friend centuries ago. That wasn’t your fault, though.”

Dean seems lost and confused. “So Cas is getting his memories back? The ones Naomi messed with?”

“That’s what the sigil seemed to do,” Gabriel says. “The book was titled ‘Qafsiel,’ Castiel’s true name, and I honestly think that sigil was one he made himself in preparation of losing his memories.”

“So your true name is Jibrail? And you and Cas—Qafsiel...whatever—were besties?”

“Yep. We watched _Baywatch_ together and painted each other’s toenails.”

Castiel frowns. “ _Baywatch_ didn’t exist until the 1990s, and painting toe—”

“It was a joke, Qafsiel.” Gabriel has an amused smile—though sadness tinges it. “Some things never change,” he mumbles almost inaudibly, then turns to Dean and adds, “Qafsiel and I were two of the seven archangels presiding over the world order. Qafsiel was the youngest archangel and my closest friend.”

Dean still seems confused. “So Cas was an archangel, and you two were friends or whatever. And then what happened? He just...stopped being an archangel? And you two broke up?”

Gabriel turns to Castiel expectantly. The younger angel shrugs. “I don’t remember that far.” He lowers his eyes. “I’m not sure I want to. I have a sense that nothing good happened to me over the past 5,000 years.”

Gabriel has a sympathetic look, which neither Dean nor Cas has ever seen before. “The sigil called out to me when it was activated, and I’m certain you made it. You intended for this to happen, for me to be here. We’ll figure this out together.”

Without warning—or seemingly instigation—a feeling of dread and guilt settles in Castiel’s gut. “I was the reason you left heaven, wasn’t I?”

Sorrow flickers across Gabriel’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it comes, replaced by his usual drollness. “Of course not, kiddo. You know me. All that work just wasn’t for me.”

“That’s not true. You loved helping reincarnate souls and guiding humans onto the right path. It’s my fault you gave that up, isn’t it? I don’t remember how I did it, but I know I did. I’m so sorry.”

Perhaps it’s because of the defeated look on Castiel’s face that Gabriel drops his act and becomes serious. “No, Qafsiel, it was no one’s fault.” He sighs. “Look, heaven was messed up after Mesopotamia, and it just got worse and worse. I left as soon as Father did. I couldn’t participate in leading the angels around for selfish reasons like Mikhail and Rafil. That’s why I left. If anything, you made me see that what they were doing was wrong.”

Castiel holds his face in his hands, head throbbing the more he thinks about Mesopotamia and his Father’s absence. Something happened then. Something big. Something that had to do with—

“The Soul of Solitude.” He looks up at Dean, who stares back in confusion, then something ruptures in the angel’s body. He slumps down into the bed, limp and overcome with pain.

“What happened?” Dean asks, voice filled with concern. “Cas?”

Strong arms lay Castiel onto his back. He stares up at the ceiling as black edges his vision and moves inward. He can taste blood and feel it well up in his throat, leaking between his lips.

“Shit, his soul is ripping through his vessel,” Gabriel says. Something touches Castiel’s forehead. “Get Sam. He has Qafsiel’s book, and I need to take another look at that sigil.”

Castiel feels something warm take his hand, and for a moment, the pain abates. As soon as the touch leaves, however, the pain returns. Castiel’s vision blackens. He hopes it’s because he closed his eyes.


	2. Free Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all studied the Epic of Gilgamesh--because I've read six translations of it. That being said, I've had to alter some of the epic to make it work for the story. I apologize for the inaccuracy and future inaccuracies. I hope it's enjoyable anyway.

The Soul of Solitude took over the city of Uruk quite easily. He was an uncommonly strong man, and his abilities to see into the future gave him a reputation as the divine child of a god. Being physically strong and a prophet helped him win Uruk. His charisma allowed him to keep it.

Qafsiel had watched the soul grow into the man he now saw in the Viewing Pond. The soul’s body was named Gilgamesh. His people saw him as something to be feared, and they were discontent. He was brash, whimsical, arrogant, and unsympathetic. His only redeeming quality was that he kept the city safe from bandits and raiders. Qafsiel knew Gilgamesh’s desire to protect his city was out of real love, and his loyalty to his people never faltered. If only he learned empathy and humility, he would have been a great king.

 _It is time_ , God whispered, so close that Qafsiel could feel his Father’s power roll over him.

“What is it time for, Father?” Qafsiel asked.

God drew nearer, some of His power coalescing into a singular entity. Qafsiel turned to see a Figure. It was black and circular, like a hole. But that was God. He was the space in which all things happened, the Great Void containing the whole of the universe. He was nothing. And he was everything.

“The prophet will be put in danger soon,” God said. “Lilith has awakened an old power, an immense power. She will wreak havoc upon the land. Your Soul of Solitude needs you beside him, to protect him from Lilith and from himself.”

Qafsiel glanced into the pond where the prophet’s image remained. “What power has Lilith awakened? And how can I protect the soul from himself?”

“Lilith has taken hold of an angelic power that she would use against heaven.” God’s Figure blinked out of existence, then Qafsiel felt the warmth of his Father’s embrace—though he could not see Him. “Your Soul of Solitude is lost. He needs you to guide him. If you do not, if you fail, he will destroy his own soul.”

Qafsiel shuddered at the thought. “What must I do?”

“That is a path you must make on your own.” God’s warmth vanished. _Be brave, my child. Your greatest journey begins now. Take your vessel. Stand at your soul’s side. Protect him._

“Yes, Father.”

_I love you, my child. Never forget that._

“I will not forget, Father. I love you.”

God’s presence vanished completely. Qafsiel stared into the Viewing Pond a moment. Gilgamesh’s burly form blurred, then was replaced by another, equally burly form. Qafsiel’s vessel was a mountain of a man. Born with what people would one day call Expressive Language Disorder, the man could not speak coherently—though he understood others well enough. As a result, he had been shunned from his society and chose to live in the wilderness, preferring the company of animals whom he had no need to speak with.

Qafsiel leaned into the Viewing Pond, about to fall into it, when the flap of wings sounded behind him. He turned to see Jibrail and two other angels standing at the edge of the Garden. “Jibrail, Namlah, Crosil,” he greeted. “What brings you to my Garden?”

The distinctly female figure of white, curvy energy stared at Qafsiel intently. Namlah had always had a dire demeanor, even if there was nothing to be dire about. With a contrasting personality was her partner, Crosil, who had a tendency to look at the world as if it were his for the taking, yet maintained a composed, indifferent air. His green form was more ambiguous with a slight, feminine frame and angular, masculine torso. He and Namlah were the leaders of a team tasked with developing new sigils and finding lost angelic weaponry. But if the rumors were anything to go by, they were not successful in either task.

“Father says you’re going to Earth,” Jibrail said. “Namlah and Crosil will be going with you.”

Qafsiel’s brows rose. “For what reason? Are they to help me look after the prophet?”

Crosil scoffed. “No, we’ll leave the babysitting to you. We’re interested in the weapon Lilith has.”

“We believe it belonged to Samil,” said Namlah, “which means it may have the power to destroy all of mankind in the wrong hands.”

Qafsiel grimaced. Samil was the strongest of the seven archangels. His name literally translated to “Wrath of God.” He was charged with destroying whatever God desired, whether it be the dinosaurs or a distant star. Samil was a force of destruction, and all his weaponry had the power to raze millions of years of creation in an instant. He and Death were good friends, if Qafsiel recalled correctly.

“Why is Samil not searching for his own weapon?” Qafsiel asked.

Jibrail frowned. “Father insisted Namlah and Crosil find the weapon, which makes me think that He doesn’t want the weapon found at all.”

Namlah shot Jibrail a scathing look. Crosil chuckled and said, “Just like He doesn’t want His messages wrapped in sarcasm and puns.”

A corner of Jibrail’s lips turned up. “Well, it’s no fun if the message doesn’t keep you guessing.”

Crosil laughed. “It’s a miracle heaven functions on the messages you deliver.”

Qafsiel agreed with Crosil’s statement, but didn’t speak his thoughts. “If Crosil and Namlah come with me,” he said, “they must each find their own vessels. I do not have the time to find vessels for them.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Crosil insisted. “We’ve got a pair picked out already, and we promise to stay out of your way as much as possible.”

Namlah nodded. “We will be as inconspicuous as possible, Qafsiel, but should you ever need our help, please do not hesitate to ask.”

Qafsiel smiled, and his entire soul seemed to light up with the expression. “Thank you, sister. And if you should need my aid, I will come at your call.”

In spite of her rigidity, Namlah returned his smile. Jibrail seemed amused by Qafsiel’s ability to effortlessly bring out the warmth in even the coldest of souls. “Good luck,” the oldest angel said to his siblings. “Keep them safe, Qafsiel.”

“Of course, brother.” Qafsiel offered Jibrail a wry grin. “And do try to limit your time with the Viewing Pond.”

Jibrail arched a brow. “What makes you think I would find watching you interesting?”

“Who said it was me you were going to watch?”

When Jibrail looked at a loss for words, Qafsiel laughed and said, “Take care of yourself, brother.”

“And you.” Jibrail folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t want to have to swoop in and rescue you.”

“I shall try to keep your swooping to a minimum.” Qafsiel looked at Namlah and Crosil. “You may use the Viewing Pond to access your vessels if you wish, but be sure you tuck your wings in when you go through.”

Crosil furrowed his brows. “What do you mean ‘go through’?”

Qafsiel crossed his arms over his chest. “I mean this.” He fell back into the Pond’s black waters. Then kept falling.

Darkness surrounded him, a familiar presence after millions of years being attached to the Pond’s black waters. He let the water guide him to his vessel. Seconds later, the darkness and water dissipated, leaving nothing but the Earth beneath him. Qafsiel spread his wings and glided through the clouds. He felt the air move beneath him, as if greeting him as an old friend.

“Enkidu,” he whispered, and his voice sent a gust of wind barreling through the sky. Thunder boomed.

The touch of a mind connected with Qafsiel. “Enkidu, you have been chosen for a great purpose,” he said. “Will you be my host, my connection to the mortal world?”

Below, Mesopotamia was a speck, but in it, Qafsiel could see his vessel stand in awe, eyes directed toward the sky. Doubtless, Qafsiel looked to him like a streak of lightning, and he probably thought the angel one of his gods.

 _Yes!_ Enkidu yelled to Qafsiel, his voice echoing in the angel’s mind, as it could not be heard from miles away. Qafsiel let himself fall to Enkidu, gravity taking him to his vessel. The speck of Mesopotamia grew larger and larger until Qafsiel was swallowed by it. Enkidu stood in the thick of wilderness, his massive form blending into the surrounding trees. Qafsiel fell into the man, and Enkidu’s soul yielded to the immensity of the archangel. It was easy to push Enkidu’s consciousness into his happiest memories. He would want for nothing now.

Qafsiel inhaled deeply with lungs he had never had before. He’d been to Earth before, but never in a vessel. It was odd to have flesh and blood. He could feel the individual atoms making up the body he inhabited. It would have been effortless to tear through the delicate structures comprising Enkidu. Humans really were such delicate creatures.

Enkidu had long, black hair that fell almost to his waist. It was wavy and soft, not at all like Qafsiel expected from such a rough man, and it not only covered his head but his chest and underarms and lower body. Muscles from years of wandering through the forest and scaling steep hills rippled with Qafsiel’s every move. His skin was imperfect—rough, scarred, dirty, and darkened with sun exposure. Qafsiel cured the beginnings of skin cancer in an instant.

“Enlil, save me,” a shaky voice muttered.

The angel turned a little too quickly to be a human speed. A man stood between the trees, his tan wool wrap dirty from travel. It fit snugly around his hips and cut off at his knees, which were shaking. He stared at Qafsiel with wide, brown eyes. It was a rare man whose eyes remained unscathed after watching an archangel in its true form, as he must have when Qafsiel descended.

“Do not fear, mortal,” Qafsiel said. “You will receive no harm from me.”

“What are you?” the man asked.

Qafsiel hesitated before answering. The Sumerian faith involved many gods and lengthy myths, most of which were based in truth. To say he was the archangel of solitude and tears, Qafsiel likely would be misunderstood and mistrusted. “I am a creation of Aruru,” he lied, recalling Aruru was the goddess of creation. “I was made of her clay and water.”

“By the gods,” the man breathed, holding his hand over his bare chest. “Please stay where you are.” He hurried away.

Qafsiel looked down at callused, scarred hands that were not his own, flexing them curiously. The human world was so beautiful, so intriguing, so complex. The intricacies forming just one hand was incredible. Atoms bonding into molecules, molecules bonding into cells, cells bonding into tissues, tissues bonding into organs—all of it was amazing.

With a deep breath, Qafsiel settled into his new skin. How he had missed experiencing the Earth, rather than only watching from the Pond.

“So it’s true,” said a light, smooth voice.

Qafsiel turned with purposeful slowness. A woman stood with the man who’d seen the archangel’s true form. Her wool wrap was draped over her entire body, the fabric loose around her ankles and tight around her breasts. The end of the wrap was twisted and draped over her shoulder. The top of her black hair was tied back in a braid while the rest spilled loosely to her waist. She was uncommonly beautiful with smooth, olive skin and striking gray eyes. Qafsiel overlooked her outer appearance, however, and focused on the bright, green light of her soul. “The Soul of Truth,” he mumbled to himself, surprised to have found the Soul of Solitude’s sibling so soon. Gilgamesh had no siblings by blood, but doubtlessly, this woman was close enough with Gilgamesh to be like his sister.

“The trapper says you’re a creation of Aruru,” said the woman. “He says you fell into this form like a meteor. What are you called?”

“Enkidu,” Qafsiel said with a slight smile. “And who are you?”

“Shamhat.” She looked Qafsiel over slowly. “I am a _harimtu_ from the Temple of Ishtar.”

Qafsiel tried to recall just what exactly a _harimtu_ was. He was fairly certain they were women who devoted their lives to their sacred duty to a deity, but more specifically, they used sexual intercourse as a sacred ritual—which made them...prostitutes? No, that term was often derogatory and didn’t respect the nature of _harimtu_ s. Maybe it was best to simply refer to them as _harimtu_ s.

“Enkidu,” Shamhat said, “what is your role in life?”

It took Qafsiel a moment to determine she was asking what his job was. “I do not have one. I was given to the wilderness, and I have lived off the land and animals for years.”

The man grimaced. “He is uncivilized, woman,” he muttered. “Look. He does not even wear clothes.”

“And with a body like that, he could overpower us at anytime, yet he hasn’t.” Shamhat stared at Qafsiel a moment, then unwrapped the top fabric of her wrap. She tore it, revealing her breasts and held it out to Qafsiel. “Cover yourself.”

He hesitantly stepped up to her and took the fabric. She watched curiously as he tied the fabric around his waist. “It will have to do until we can find you real clothes,” she mumbled, more to herself. “Perhaps the shepherds would lodge you in return for work.”

Qafsiel’s brows knitted together. “You mean to take me into the city?”

“I cannot leave you in the wilderness.” A slight smile took her lips. “And I believe our king would like to meet the meteor he dreams so often about.”

Qafsiel wasn’t surprised Gilgamesh foresaw his coming to Earth. Doubtlessly, the presence of an archangel would shift the balance of the world. No prophet could ignore that. “The king dreams of me?”

“Oh, yes. He sent me here with the trapper as my guide to find you. It seems he was right about the timing.” Her smile turned somewhat devious. “Come. It is almost a week’s walk out of this forest, and a storm brews. We should bed down for the evening.” She turned and started away. Qafsiel followed her through the trees, keeping his distance from the trapper who eyed the archangel warily.

The sky grew dark overhead as gray clouds rolled through, and thunder grumbled in the distance. A frigid wind blew through the trees. Qafsiel looked up and extended his senses to the sky. It was filled with humanity’s apprehension and anger. Chaos was coming.

A flash of lightning split the clouds, and two streaks of light fell. Qafsiel watched them go in different directions, Namlah and Crosil falling to their vessels. Chaos was here.


	3. Divine Rights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm going to start offering these chapters in audio format for all you people who need your Destiel on the go. I'll be posting all the audio files on my tumblr: http://thesarcasticpan.tumblr.com/  
> They will be voiced by me. I can't do a very good Castiel impression because I lack a deep voice, but I think I'm a decent reader. I suppose you guys will be the judge of that.

Read the notes, then you can continue. And by the "notes," I mean all the notes.

The trapper died on the fifth day. Qafsiel could have saved him from the pulmonary embolism that eventually killed him in his sleep, but everything had a season. It had been his time; Qafsiel had seen it in the trapper’s soul. Shamhat had said a word of prayer over the body, then left it where the soul had escaped the flesh. She didn’t know the way back to the city, as the trapper had been her guide. Fortunately, Qafsiel remembered the forest’s geography after watching it for so long from heaven.

On the evening of the sixth day, he and Shamhat set up camp a day’s walk from Uruk’s fields. Qafsiel had brought a fire into being and willed the rains and winds of the storm away from their campsite. Shamhat had deduced on the third day that Qafsiel’s power had both brought the storm and was now shielding them from it. Qafsiel had deduced on the same day that Shamhat was uncommonly intelligent. She always had a glint in her gray eyes, as if she knew something no one else did, and her constant observation of Qafsiel seemed analytical, rather than wary. Veritably, she had the Soul of Truth.

Qafsiel probably should have flown to Gilgamesh already, but he wanted to take his time experiencing Earth and having a body before getting to work. This world was so fascinating. It was vibrant, rich, and unpredictable—nothing like heaven’s unchanging environment. Qafsiel had only been to Earth three other times. Once to aid the creation of the planet’s atmosphere. Once to witness the birth of the first tetrapod. And once to ensure the survival of the first primates. This was his first time amongst humans in their upright, bipedal, big-brained state, and he wanted his adventure to last as long as possible. So he stayed with Shamhat, conversed with her about Uruk and Gilgamesh, learned more about the culture and mannerisms. Of course, he already knew most everything about Mesopotamia, having spent years watching its people. Still, his social skills needed practice.

“Tell me, Enkidu,” Shamhat said, warming her hands by the fire. “What is your real name?”

Qafsiel sat beside her on the ground, both of them cross-legged. “I have told you my name,” he mumbled and glanced up at the sky. The storm was ebbing, but it likely wouldn’t come to an end for another few days, not while an archangel and two seraphs remained on Earth.

Shamhat ran her hands through her long, black hair. “Am I to believe a heavenly being has the name of a common man?”

Qafsiel smiled slightly. He liked Shamhat and had always admired her soul’s inherent thirst for knowledge—the reason he deemed it the Soul of Truth. “The name given to me by God is Qafsiel.”

She nodded absently. “Yes, the consciousness of the universe, God. Gilgamesh has told me about Him.” Her eyes narrowed. “ Tell me, if God is neither male nor female, why do we speak of Him as a man?”

Qafsiel shrugged. “Humans have always assumed such, and we have adapted to their languages in order to communicate. Actually, there are no gendered terms in Enochian, the language of the angels.”

“Angels.” She said the word as if it didn’t quite feel right on her lips. “Gilgamesh has also spoken of angels. That is what you are, yes?”

Qafsiel nodded. “I am an archangel, the youngest of seven.”

“An archangel is different from other angels?”

“Yes, we are the leaders of the angels, and we ensure the world order remains in balance.”

Shamhat seemed intrigued. “So you have leaders among your people. Am I right in assuming you have a hierarchy, then? Would you explain it?”

Qafsiel didn’t see why she would be so interested in the angelic hierarchy, but humored her nonetheless. “There are two types of angels: common angels and archangels. There are a total of seven archangels—myself, Sakhil, Anil, Samil, Rafil, Jibrail, and Mikhail—from youngest to oldest. All angels are divided further into rankings based on their abilities, with the more powerful ones having more authority.”

“What rankings?” Shamhat prompted. “You must have names for them.”

Qafsiel regarded Shamhat curiously, wondering if she was asking for information with a hidden purpose or if she was honestly fascinated. “There are nine rankings. From lowest to highest, they are Ishim, Cherubim, Elohim, Malakim, Seraphim, Hashmallim, Erelim, Ophanim, and Hayoth.”

“If a common angel were Hayoth, but an archangel an Ophanim, who has more authority?”

“The archangel. Archangels may be divided into ranks like common angels, but we are all far more powerful than our other siblings.”

Shamhat was quiet a moment, a thoughtful look on her face. “What are the rankings of the archangels if there are nine ranks and only seven of you?”

“I am Erelim. Sakhil is Elohim. Anil is Hashmallim. Samil is Seraphim. Rafil is Ophanim. Jibrail is Malakim. And Mikhail is Hayoth.”

Shamhat’s brows rose. “Your rankings do not match your ages? You are the youngest, yet you hold the third highest rank. I imagine some of your older siblings are not happy about that.”

Qafsiel frowned. “We all have our roles. Petty power disputes will not change that.”

“But you are superior to them when they have lived longer.”

“Age is not a measure of competence, and power is not a measure of character. I may have greater power and authority than five of my siblings, but that does not make me better than them, nor am I better than any common angel. We all have our roles in life, and each one is as important as the other. A merchant, for instance, provides goods for the people of his city. Without him, trade does not flow. The economy collapses. His role is no less essential to a city than a king’s. Yet we would say a king is more important than the common merchant.”

Shamhat smiled slightly. “Are all angels this humble and wise?”

Qafsiel’s brows furrowed. “I merely speak the truth.”

“The truth is often ignored and unspoken. It is refreshing to hear it so plainly.” She started braiding her hair. “Why do angels refer to each other by familial terms when they are not born of parents? Gilgamesh has often asked me this, and I have yet to find a sensible answer.”

“I do not have an answer either. When our Father created us, he called us a family, but I suppose we are related to each other in the same way that all humans are related to each other, as you all shared a common ancestor millions of years ago.”

Shamhat looked relieved. She finished braiding her hair. “Gilgamesh foresaw a romantic relationship between two angels, and he was worried it was incestuous. I am glad that is not the case.”

“He...what?” Qafsiel tried to think of angels who could possibly think about—let alone want—a romantic relationship. “Angels do not feel romantic love. A relationship is impossible.”

“That’s not what Gilgamesh saw.”

“And just what did he see?”

Shamhat shrugged, but she had a knowing look. “You would have to ask him yourself.” She pulled a thick roll of cloth from a leather pack sitting beside a rock and laid it out beside the fire. “I’m going to sleep. Do try to be quiet.”

Qafsiel nodded, and she laid out over the cloth. He willed the fire to dim slightly, keeping the warmth but not the flames. The smoke drifted up. Qafsiel wasn’t worried about it attracting unwelcome visitors. Any animals or insects that might have wandered this way tonight would not come within the campsite, and any humans who could possibly intend harm would find they did not stand a chance against an archangel. Absolute protection was one of the perks of being near an archangel. Shamhat had become accustomed to having the security over the past week, and Qafsiel was happy to look over her. After watching humans suffer for years, he took some joy in finally being able to do something about it.

The fire popped, sending out sparks that suddenly changed direction when they neared Shamhat. Qafsiel sat straighter and closed his eyes. He opened himself to the Communion. The voices of thousands of angels rang through his mind. He focused on one in particular and closed all other communication. _Jibrail, are you working?_ Qafsiel asked.

 _As always, brother,_ said Jibrail in a tired tone. _But I’m never too busy for you. How are you enjoying Earth?_

Qafsiel smiled. _It’s amazing. I’m still becoming accustomed to my vessel, but I think it’s a wonderful experience. It’s all so...new._

Jibrail’s chuckle came over the connection _. Just be careful out there. It’s not all pretty and comfortable like here in heaven._

_On the contrary, brother, I think it’s the most beautiful and comfortable place I’ve ever been to. There’s things to taste and touch and smell and hear and see. It’s all so vibrant, but also soothing. I feel...at home._

For a moment, Jibrail didn’t reply, then he murmured, _I was afraid you’d say that._

_What do you mean?_

_Mikhail and Rafil have always known about your fondness for humanity and Earth. When they heard you would be going down in a vessel, they worried that you would want to stay there after living amongst humans._

_I wouldn’t abandon—_

_And I told them that it should be your choice what you want to do._

Qafsiel’s brows furrowed. _Are you saying you would defend my choice to abandon the post Father gave me to live with humans?_

_Your life should be no one’s but your own, Qafsiel. Humanity makes you happy. Staring into a pond does not. I would not deny you happiness, nor let our siblings deny you happiness._

_I...thank you, Jibrail. But I don’t think your aid will be necessary. I do love the job Father gave me. It has an important purpose. I would never abandon it or our siblings for my selfish desires._

Jibrail sighed. _Yeah, I thought you would say that. Just take care of yourself, Qafsiel. The mission doesn’t always come first._

_But Mikhail said—_

_I know what Mikhail said, but sometimes he’s wrong. Your safety is more important than any mission._

Qafsiel hadn’t known Jibrail to disagree with their eldest brother. In fact, no one but Lucifer had disagreed with Mikhail. And that had been disastrous. _I shall think about it,_ Qafsiel said after a pause. _Be well, Jibrail._

_Be well._

Qafsiel left the connection and opened his eyes. His thoughts grew more and more troubled. He’d never once considered his own happiness or safety to be of more importance than his mission. That was a human idea. Wasn’t it?  

The fire popped again. Humans and angels shared qualities, but just how similar they truly were was a mystery to Qafsiel. He supposed he’d just have to find out.

#

Afternoon of the next day, Qafsiel and Shamhat emerged from the forest and onto a road. From there, she led him into farmland and to a gathering of reed houses atop a small hill amidst vegetable fields. “It’s a day’s walk from here to the city,” Shamhat said as they approached the house. “The shepherds would let you stay the night in return for work.” She looked him over. “You look like you’d do well with hard labour.”

He narrowed his eyes just as a man wearing a wool robe walked up to them. His dark skin was spotted with patches of white—a skin condition that would one day be known as Vitiligo. His black hair was spotted with gray. He had a kind smile and warm, brown eyes. “Ah, Shamhat, you have returned,” he greeted and pulled her into an embrace. “And I see you have brought someone with you.” He looked up at Qafsiel with wary eyes.

The archangel stared at the man. “I am Enkidu.”

“He was born in the wilds,” Shamhat said. “I have civilized him.”

The man’s brows rose. “Is that so? And how did you manage that?”

“The way only a woman can.”

He laughed. “You are truly a harimtu, Shamhat. Your womanly charms are divine.” He offered Qafsiel a slight bow. “I am Izi, a humble shepherd. This is my family’s farm.”

Qafsiel looked around at the collection of houses. There were enough to shelter at least ten people, and he assumed the larger structure a ways down the hill was some kind of barn. “Where is your family?”

“Preparing for my wedding.”

“Wedding?” said Shamhat in disbelief. “I thought that wasn’t for another week.”

“Her father wanted the wedding sooner, so he could have the bridal money in time to pay off a debt.”

Shamhat frowned. “So Gilgamesh will be coming tonight?”

Izi grimaced. “I certainly hope not. No one knows about the change of wedding date except for my family and my bride’s family.”

Qafsiel cocked a brow. “Forgive my ignorance, but why would Gilgamesh come to a farmer’s wedding?”

Izi shook his head in discontent. “You have lived amongst animals too long, Enkidu. Our king, Gilgamesh, has declared it his divine right to take the virginity of the bride before her husband.”

Qafsiel’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, then closed again. He wasn’t sure whether to be horrified with Gilgamesh’s abuse of power or offended that he would claim divinity as his justification. Shamhat patted Qafsiel’s shoulder in what he interpreted as a reassuring gesture. “I doubt our king would come to the farmlands simply to bed a virgin.”

“He better not,” Qafsiel grumbled.

Izi’s brows lifted. “Oh? Would you do something about it?”

“I would not allow him to abuse his power in such a heinous manner. This will absolutely not continue.”

Izi looked Qafsiel over. “You certainly look formidable, but can you best him in a fight? He is stronger than a bull and almost as clever as Shamhat.”

No mortal man could win against an archangel. Of that, Qafsiel was sure. “I will stop him. You have my word.”

Izi smiled and turned to Shamhat. “Your wild man is most certainly welcome at our table and my wedding, if only so I might watch him fight our king.”

A corner of her lips turned up. “Thank you, Izi. Would work earn him a bed?”

“Sure. And if he can beat the king, he’s welcome in my house any time.”

She stretched her thin arm around Qafsiel’s large shoulders. “Well, Enkidu, you’re the official protector of this wedding. Are you prepared to face Gilgamesh?”

Something in her tone made Qafsiel think that she had somehow orchestrated this entire situation. “If he comes, certainly.”

A knowing smile spread her lips. “Excellent.”


	4. A Binding Agreement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> Do I have your attention? Good. So I'm going to have to delay the audio chapter because I'm ill, and my voice has gone to shit. Also, I have poetry contests to win and short stories to write and novels to edit. Also, midterms. My apologies. I'll try to have the first chapter in audio by next week. For now, enjoy the introduction of Gilgamesh.

The wedding was a small ceremony that involved the trading of goats and sheep for the reluctant and young bride. Qafsiel could sense her anxiety, but knew he couldn’t help her. This was a patriarchal society, and she likely couldn’t survive without the financial and social security a marriage gave her. She knew this. Her family knew this. Qafsiel knew this.

He didn’t want to let her marry away her autonomy to a man twice her age, but he didn’t see a better option. To turn her back on the marriage now, she would have had to be willing to take a different, dangerous path of living as a social outcast with nothing to her name. So Qafsiel watched with a weighted conscience as he witnessed the ineptitude of humans.

Angels, for the most part, believed each other equal. Only humans had this concept of femininity and masculinity as split into genders based on biological sex—as if biology determined the worth of a person. Qafsiel thought it asinine. He’d seen how each human’s role in life was an irreplaceable part of the Great Plan. All were invaluable, and all could perish as easily as the next.

The bride was dressed in a flowing, layered dress. It was plain but clean and elegant. The groom wore a long wrap around his legs and a shawl over his shoulders. Both the bride and groom were adorned with jewelry.

After the father of the bride handed his daughter off to the groom, they worked out the contract for the marriage, as if the bride were as much property as the farmland she stood upon. Qafsiel didn’t stay to watch the rest of the ceremony, instead drifting to a barn. The company of animals was far less infuriating than the company humans.

“It’s rude to leave in the middle of a wedding,” Shamhat said in the doorway of the barn just minutes after Qafsiel had settled beside the goats. “You’re fortunate I took the time to explain you have no social skills, as a man of the wilds.”

Qafsiel glanced up at her from where he sat on the floor amidst a family of goats. A lamb was curled in his lap. He petted it absently. “I could not watch a human given away as chattel to another.”

Shamhat sighed and walked up to Qafsiel. She laid a hand on his head as she knelt before him. “As you have said, Qafsiel, we all have our own roles in life, none more important than the other. This is the society we live in. We do what we have to in order to survive, and we do what we can to be happy with our lot in life. Is that not honorable?”

“It is unfair.”

“Life is not fair. Bad things happen all the time.” She swept his hair behind his ear. “It is our will to be happy in the face of adversity and injustice that gives us power. Do not pity us. We will thrive.”

He looked into her strong, gray eyes. In all his millions of years, he’d never encountered eyes more unwavering, more sure. She had more conviction in those eyes than he had in his entire being. “You are an incredible person, Shamhat.”

A corner of her lips turned up. “I must be if I’m receiving such a compliment from an archangel.”

A boy ran into the barn. “ _Harimtu!_ Wild man!” he said, eyes wide. “He’s here! He’s here!”

“Who?” Qafsiel asked.

“King Gilgamesh! He’s waiting to bed the bride!”

Qafsiel took the lamb from his lap and stood with Shamhat. “He’s expecting you,” she said. “He’ll be prepared.”

The archangel started out of the barn. “No, he won’t.”

Shamhat and Qafsiel trailed behind the boy who led them to a newly erected house. A group of shepherds were gathered around it, and at the front of them was a man who stood almost a head taller than all of them. The bright red of his soul stood out like a beacon. His auburn hair was tied back with a strip of fabric. He wore only a wrap around his waist, leaving his muscled, scarred chest bare. A soft glow rose from his olive skin, imperceptible to humans. Qafsiel knew what it meant, however, and as soon as he saw it, his feet stopped abruptly, causing Shamhat to run into him. She grumbled something into his back before walking around to his side.

“Nephilim,” he mumbled.

She looked up at the archangel curiously. “What?”

The tall man turned and looked past the crowd of shepherds. His eyes were a blazing amber, as if fire burned behind them. They unerringly found Qafsiel’s gaze. _A nephilim prophet_ , thought Qafsiel. _Father, what are You planning?_

“He is Gilgamesh,” Shamhat said. “His father was a priest. His mother was—”

“An angel.” Qafsiel watched as Gilgamesh walked through the crowd, heading for the archangel.

Shamhat narrowed her eyes at Qafsiel. “He says his mother is called Lailah.”

A nasty Enochian curse escaped Qafsiel’s lips, and a minor earthquake shook Japan. Maybe God did have a sense of humor—a weird, twisted sense of humor that made sense only to Him.

Gilgamesh neared Qafsiel, but just as it seemed he would speak to the archangel, his attention shifted to Shamhat. “Are you hurt?” he asked her in a low, rumbling voice.

She smiled and shook her head. “I’ve had a very capable guardian watching over me.” She placed a hand on Qafsiel’s shoulder. “This is Qafsiel, but to others, he is Enkidu.”

Gilgamesh’s eyes flicked to Qafsiel. They had almost no difference in height. “ _Do you intend to fight me?_ ” Gilgamesh said in perfect Enochian. “ _I haven’t yet seen how the fight ends. I’m curious who would win._ ”

Maybe it was this society’s unjust customs; maybe it was the shock of seeing a nephilim prophet; maybe it was the arrogant arch of said prophet’s brow; but suddenly, Qafsiel was angry. He narrowed his eyes, power burning under the skin of his vessel. Time froze. The world darkened around him, color fading out of the environment. Gilgamesh looked around with wide eyes, seeing the people frozen in place and the dreary world Qafsiel had made effortlessly.

“ _What did you do?_ ” Gilgamesh asked.

“ _Isolated us in a moment of time._ ” Qafsiel folded his arms over his chest. “ _I will not let you bed a virgin girl on her wedding night. She has endured enough._ ”

Gilgamesh’s jaw set. “ _And who are you to tell me what to do? You’re my guardian, not my master._ ”

Qafsiel shook his head. “ _Truly, your arrogance knows no bounds. Look around you. If I wanted to, I could make you my puppet, render you into nothing but a mindless slave to my whim._ ” He leaned forward until he was inches from Gilgamesh’s face. “ _With a flick of my wrist, I could raze your little city to dust._ ”

Gilgamesh’s stare was unyielding. “ _You wouldn’t. You’re assigned to protect me, not hinder me._ ”

With a slight smirk, Qafsiel leaned back and held his palm out. A small fire burned in it. Gilgamesh hissed in pain when the archangel grabbed his shoulder. The burn of a handprint appeared in his skin. “ _Just as I can inflict damage_ ,” Qafsiel said and waved his hand over the burn, “ _I can reverse it._ ” The handprint disappeared. “ _How many times do you imagine I might kill you and bring you back to life? How many floods I can bring down on your city and rebuild it? How many fires I can start and snuff?_ ” Flames licked up from his palm. “ _With just one hand._ ”

Gilgamesh glanced at his shoulder, then back to the archangel, fear in his eyes. “ _And what would you have me do?_ ”

“ _Be kind to your people. Your arrogance makes you a menace. You are no more divine than any other mortal, regardless of your heritage. Be the ruler they deserve, not the one you think you are._ ”

The tendons in Gilgamesh’s neck tensed. “ _And what should we do about the crowd outside the bridal chamber? If I leave now, they will assume I am afraid of you. They would lose faith in my abilities._ ”

Qafsiel fiddled absently with the fire in his hand. “ _If you wish, we can stage a fight, and I will let you best me._ ”

“ _No, they must see you as my equal, or they will become suspicious by your presence by my side._ ”

“ _You would have us come to a draw?_ ”

“ _I see no other option._ ”

Qafsiel made a fist, snuffing the fire in his palm. “ _Very well._ ” Color bled back into the world, and time moved once again.

Shamhat looked between Gilgamesh and Qafsiel. “The others will become wary if you do not speak Sumerian,” she pointed out, unaware of the exchange that had just been made between the prophet and his guardian archangel.

Gilgamesh took a deep breath, and let it out on a tired sigh. When he spoke, it was loud enough to be heard by the surrounding people. “Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do?” he demanded in a hard voice, glaring at Qafsiel.

Playing along, Qafsiel returned Gilgamesh’s glare. “I will not stand by while you terrorize your own people.”

“How dare you!” Gilgamesh’s fist came flying at Qafsiel’s face. The archangel dodged easily and threw his own punch. Surprisingly, Gilgamesh sidestepped the swing and countered with a jab to Qafsiel’s ribs. On a human, that might have hurt, but the archangel barely felt anything. He did his best to act like it hurt, buckling over slightly and pausing just before he brought his knee up to Gilgamesh’s side. The prophet staggered, but his angelic blood made him more durable than any human. He returned the attack by tackling Qafsiel.

They wrestled on the ground, putting on a good show. Qafsiel even used his power to put cuts and bruises over his body as the fight progressed. By the time the archangel noticed Gilgamesh was reaching his limit, stars filled the sky and the moon floated above the horizon. They broke apart and got to their feet, shepherds still surrounding them.

“We’re going to kill each other,” Qafsiel said, imitating panting.

Gilgamesh walked up to the archangel, hands raised in a disarming gesture. “As we’re so evenly matched,” he said, “what should we do now?”

Qafsiel looked around at the curious gazes of the shepherds. He stopped at Shamhat who stared back at him with a mischievous glint her eye. “I’m willing to stop fighting,” Qafsiel said, returning his stare to Gilgamesh. “What I am not willing to do is allow you to bed a virgin to whom you are not married.”

The same mischievous glint Qafsiel had seen in Shamhat’s eyes appeared in Gilgamesh’s. “If you would refuse me my divine right to a virgin, then I would take your body in return.”

Qafsiel blinked. He knew Gilgamesh wasn’t being literal in demanding his body, but the figurative meaning was no better than the literal interpretation. “You...want to lie with me?”

“It’s only fitting.”

The archangel glanced at Shamhat. When he saw her smirk, he knew he had been well and truly played. She’d been right. Gilgamesh had been prepared to meet Qafsiel. In fact, the prophet had been so well prepared that his every action thus far had led up to this point where he’d put the archangel in a complicated position. If Qafsiel refused, Gilgamesh would have to continue fighting him, which couldn’t happen if he was to keep his dignity. If Qafsiel agreed, he’d be bound by his own code of honor to keep his word.

“All right,” the archangel said, making Gilgamesh grin in triumph. “But I have one condition.”

Obviously not expecting the addendum, Gilgamesh frowned. “What condition?”

Qafsiel allowed his lips to spread into a smug smile. “You have to make me fall in love with you first.”

Whispers broke out among the shepherds. Shamhat had a grin so wide Qafsiel thought her cheeks might split. Gilgamesh raised a hand, and the whispers stopped instantly. “Very well,” the prophet agreed. “I will make you fall in love with me.”

“ _You’ll never do it_ ,” Qafsiel said in Enochian. “ _Angels can’t feel romantic love_.”

“ _Namlah and Crosil would beg to differ. They’re copulating in a field as we speak._ ”

Qafsiel shook his head, refusing to believe it, but sensing no lie in the prophet’s words. His troubled thoughts came to a halt when Gilgamesh wrapped his arms around Qafsiel’s waist. Instinctively, the archangel stiffened and placed his hands on the prophet’s shoulder, prepared to push away. “It is said that love between equals is the highest love there is,” Gilgamesh said in Sumerian for everyone to hear. “No one else has challenged me like you.”

“I would imagine not.” Qafsiel stared into Gilgamesh’s amber eyes, trying to understand what the man was thinking. “And I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone quite like you.”

“You must think yourself fortunate.” Gilgamesh pulled the archangel closer, bringing their faces close enough that Qafsiel could taste the prophet’s breath. “I would make you my friend before a lover.”

Qafsiel could hear the prophet’s heartbeat speeding up. He stayed perfectly still while Gilgamesh closed the distance between their lips. The archangel had never been kissed before, and he found the softness of Gilgamesh’s lips surprising, considering his coarse demeanor. There was heat and life beneath the mortal flesh. The bright red soul within the prophet seemed so blinding this close that Qafsiel closed his eyes. The archangel felt a tingling pleasure where Gilgamesh’s lips connected with his own, and his borrowed body responded by flushing with heat, a sensation he’d never experienced before.

When Gilgamesh pulled away, Qafsiel opened his eyes, his vessel’s heart beating hard. The prophet seemed thoroughly pleased with himself and leaned to whisper Enochian in the archangel’s ear, “ _You will be mine. I promise._ ”


	5. Fragile Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Midterms are coming up, and I decided to take two more classes last minute. Also, weird book stuff is happening, which has delayed the first audio chapter of 9M, but fear not, I have 6 minutes of the chapter recorded already. That's, like, two-thirds of the way, or something. Maybe less.  
> Anyway, sorry for making y'all wait. Hopefully, I'll be back to regular, weekly updates after midterms.

At the center of Uruk was a ziggurat, holding up the temple of Ishtar. The pyramid-like structure was massive with four levels. One long staircase rose from the base to the top, with two secondary staircases intersecting it at the third level. Trees and other plant life grew on the flat sections atop each level, save for the temple, and vines hung off its edges, giving it the appearance of a building rising up from a forest.

Gilgamesh’s palace was beside the temple, rising up two levels, unlike the ziggurat’s four. The palace was more grand than the rest of the city, which was comprised mostly of clay brick and reed with compact housing, but Gilgamesh didn’t use the palace for only himself. He housed a variety of slaves, advisors, and warriors who were with him nearly every hour of the day—from dawn until dusk. In addition, some of the palace's space was devoted to storing “taxes,” which included anything from crops to clothes.

The second day Qafsiel stayed in the palace, he convinced Gilgamesh to free the slaves. Most of the slaves chose to stay at the palace and serve the king as attendants, but they were now paid. The third day Qafsiel stayed in the palace, he convinced Gilgamesh to give up whatever “taxes” he didn’t actually need. He ultimately let Qafsiel go around the city and distribute the food and clothes to impoverished citizens while the decorative items were either given to the temple or merchants. By the fourth day Qafsiel stayed in the palace, everyone in Uruk knew him and sung praises for him in taming their abusive king. Even if they shouted “Enkidu,” and not “Qafsiel,” the archangel took pride in his work. The collective happiness of the city flooded him daily, and warmed him in ways that merely looking through the Viewing Pond never had.

On the sixth day, Qafsiel wandered the clay halls of the palace. He enjoyed walking around in his vessel, taking the time to experience the world as humans did. Even if he was an angel to the core, there was an ease in slipping into the simple senses of humans, slowing down to their flow of time.

He stopped at a window, which was no more than a square hole in the wall, and leaned out of it, letting the afternoon sun warm his skin as he looked over the city. It appeared a rusty red from the clay forming most of the inner houses. “Shouldn’t you be out consoling widows and feeding beggars?” a low, rumbling voice said from down the hall.

Qafsiel didn’t turn his gaze away from the city. A warm, dry wind swept through his newly trimmed hair that Shamhat had insisted on cutting herself. Gilgamesh came up beside him and leaned against the window’s frame. The dark red and blue wrap he wore marked him as royal in its weight and texture. Qafsiel knew the king disliked wearing such finery—claimed it was wasted on him who would ruin it at the first hint of battle. “What are you doing?” Gilgamesh asked. “It’s unlike you to stand idle.”

Qafsiel smiled slightly. “Sometimes, my lord, it is nice to simply take a moment to appreciate the warmth of the sun, the beauty before you, and the wind against your skin.”

The king had no reply, and the two stood in companionable silence a moment, overlooking the city of the Uruk together. The archangel could hear Gilgamesh’s breath and his steady heartbeat. It was oddly soothing. The repetitiveness of many of humanity’s practices, like copulation and eating and sleeping, had often seemed dull to Qafsiel, but he understood it now. There was comfort in repetition, and sometimes pleasure, even if only small pleasure.

“I had another vision,” Gilgamesh said softly, as if he didn’t want to disturb the tranquility.

Qafsiel turned his head to look up at Gilgamesh who stared back at him with soft, amber eyes. “What of?”

“It was unclear this time, as if there is more than one possible future we are living into.” Gilgamesh frowned, seemingly troubled by the thought. “You were in it.”

“I would imagine.”

Gilgamesh cocked a brow. “You would?”

“You are my future. I would imagine that means I am also yours.”

The king looked out over the city again, a pensive look on his face. “You were crying in my dream.”

“Angels cannot cry.”

“You were.” Gilgamesh let out a tired sigh. “It is difficult to explain, but I saw you crying. And then I was, too. I held you in my arms, and you were cold and lifeless.”

Qafsiel’s gut twisted. “Was I killed?”

“I don’t believe so. I see your face again, except it’s not the face you have now, but it’s still you. You speak to me in a strange tongue. You look happy and smile while you speak.”

Qafsiel didn’t know what to think of that. Doubtlessly, Gilgamesh had seen the archangel in a new vessel. Perhaps the strange tongue was Enochian. Did that mean he had one path where he lived, and another where he didn’t?

“I can’t imagine what could make you cry,” Gilgamesh muttered.

“Make who cry?” a smooth, deep voice asked.

Gilgamesh and Qafsiel turned to see one of the royal advisors approaching from down the hall. He wore a dark red and tan wrap that covered most of his body. The dark curls atop his head were neatly slicked back. Scars speckled his visible, tan skin.

“Haven’t you heard, Dara?” Gilgamesh said with a charming smile he reserved only for the public. “Enkidu’s on the verge of tears. He can’t stand being so idle these days, and it’s ruining his warrior’s spirit.”

Dara gave Qafsiel a knowing look. “Indeed. A man as formidable as our king would have as much thirst for battle.”

Gilgamesh glanced at Qafsiel askance, as if expecting the archangel to dispute the claim. Qafsiel remained silent, resigned to the unnecessarily masculine culture he found himself in.

“Well, perhaps if we finally dealt with Humbaba,” the king said, “Enkidu would have more to do.”

Dara grimaced. “My lord, even if we had the resources to deal with Humbaba, he is not so easily felled. There is a reason he has lived in the thick of the forest for so long.”

“As has Enkidu, but is he not my equal?”

Qafsiel grimaced. Humbaba was a demon-possessed human who lived in the forest on the outskirts of the city. He occupied himself with destroying crops and cattle on the outskirts of the forest, occasionally snatching children in the night.

Gilgamesh was fully aware that a demon lurked in the forest and that he had no means to kill it besides Qafsiel’s power, yet he insisted daily on going after it. Qafsiel had argued against the idea, unfamiliar with the kind of demon in Humbaba and uneasy about putting Gilgamesh in any sort of danger. Of course, he could bring the prophet back to life as many times as he needed, but if the demon stole his soul and dragged it to hell before Qafsiel could put it back into a body, he’d have to raise the Soul of Solitude from perdition himself. There was no telling what damage hell could do to a soul in the time it took to find and save it.

“I have lived in the wilds a long time, my lord,” Qafsiel said, figuring now was the time to end this line of thinking once and for all. “Humbaba is no ordinary man. Enlil, _father of the gods_ , appointed Humbaba to guard the trees. His voice can bring about storms. He breathes fire, as if it were air. Even rocks shatter between his jaws. You cannot near him without his knowledge, as he can hear a heifer enter his cedars from sixty leagues away. Who would be fool enough to enter his lands? Weakness overwhelms anyone who even goes near it, so a fight is never equal with Humbaba. He is a powerful warrior, Gilgamesh, a beast of a watchman who never sleeps.”

Dara looked suitably scared by Qafsiel’s warning, but Gilgamesh had an unimpressed look, perhaps knowing every word out of the archangel’s mouth was either hyperbole or an outright lie. “We are all mortal, my friend,” the king said in a calm voice. “Any beast can be slain, and I do not fear death." He shook his head in disappointment. "We have not even confronted Humbaba, yet you are already afraid.” He narrowed his eyes. “In fact, I think I’ll go first to confront Humbaba, and you can follow after.”

Dara’s eyes widened. “But, my lord, Enki—”

Gilgamesh raised a hand, silencing his advisor. “My mind has been made. Gather a small force. I will go ahead, and then Enkidu will join me, if he wishes.”

Qafsiel scowled as Gilgamesh turned and started away. “Your arrogance truly knows no bounds,” the archangel grumbled. “You will kill yourself.”

“If you have your way, my friend, it will not matter.”

Qafsiel shook his head and angrily turned back to the window, as if the dry, summer wind could blow away his fury.

#

“Maybe this outing is for the best,” Namlah said, sketching what looked to be the beginnings of a sigil into the dirt with a stick. She, Crosil, and Qafsiel stood out in barren field, their forms mere shadows in the cover of the night.

Qafsiel stared up at the stars overhead. He could see sixteen other solar systems in the galaxy that had life, some with species more intelligent than humans, some with species less intelligence. None of them had quite taken the archangel’s interest as much as humans, but he respected the uniqueness of each life-filled planet. Perhaps in time, humans might be able to communicate with the other life out there, create a connected universe.

“Gilgamesh is going to have his soul taken to hell,” Qafsiel muttered. “Humbaba isn’t a common demon.”

Crosil brushed a bit of dirt of the wrap around his waist. His vessel was a scrawny man, who looked no older than sixteen, with shaggy brown hair and pale skin. “You’re the third most powerful archangel in heaven,” he pointed out. “I’m fairly sure that you can take on a demon without issue. If Cain himself strolled over, you’d smite him in a millisecond.”

Qafsiel sighed. “Yes, but if Cain were to take Gilgamesh’s soul and drag it down to hell in a millisecond, we would have a problem, wouldn’t we?”

Namlah suddenly sliced her palm with her angel blade and pressed it to the sigil she’d drawn in the dirt. The swirling designs in the sigil glowed briefly just before a tree erupted from the earth, growing and growing until it stood taller than the ziggurat. Namlah stepped back from her work with a broad smile. Her vessel’s auburn hair shimmered in the starlight as she spun around to face Crosil and Qafsil. “It worked!” she said excitedly and ran a hand across her cut palm. The wound healed in an instant.

Qafsiel stared up at the massive tree in awe. “How...how did you do that?” he asked. “I don’t know any sigils that can create life.”

“Didn’t create it,” Crosil said and placed his hand on the smooth bark of the tree. “We already had a seed planted. The sigil just moved things along.”

“A manipulation of time?” Qafsiel asked incredulously.

Namlah shook her head. “No, the sigil gathers energy from nearby, and then puts it into the seed, speeding along its growth. It took me almost fifty years to design the sigil.”

Qafsiel touched the trunk of the tree. It hummed with life, strong and vibrant. “Can you show me how you did it?”

“Of course.” She drew a circle in the dirt. “Not all sigils require a base circle, but it’s easy to use when you’re making a sigil from scratch.”

Qafsiel watched as she wrote a curvy form of Enochian into the circle, spelling out the word for “growth.”

“As you know,” she said, “Enochian has power over the natural world, and if you incorporate the ancient script into the sigil, you can manipulate it as you want. Right now, I have the main purpose of the sigil, now I just need to write in the exact instructions.” Around the circle, surrounding the main word, she wrote, _Take the spare energy of the environment and nurture the life within._ The Enochian connected to each other, overlapping in script until the words looked no more than intricate, winding designs.

“And that,” she concluded, “is how you make a sigil.”

Qafsiel was impressed. “You figured all of this out on your own?”

“Not all on her own,” Crosil grumbled.

Namlah flashed him an indulgent smile and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Crosil helped me significantly,” she admitted. “He was the one who suggested using the ancient script. There’s something about it that has more power than the script we use now.”

Qafsiel knelt and felt over the winding lines in the sigil. “I know. I made it.”

Crosil and Namlah exchanged a glance. “You...made it?” Namlah asked in disbelief.

“It is the power of Erelim to manipulate the natural world,” Qafsiel explained, making a circle in the ground with his finger, “which includes time and space. At the advent of Earth, I needed to deliver messages to the other Erelim with instructions and sufficient power to get them to shape the world as God saw fit. My solution was a writing system that was connected to my power. As it was the first written form of Enochian, it became known as the ancient script among most angels; however, if you hear any of the archangels speak of it, they’ll call it the First Script.”

Crosil and Namlah watched in silence as Qafsiel wrote in the circle he’d just made. The First Script looked more elegant in his handwriting, and his finger moved with a practiced ease Namlah had not possessed. When he raised his palm up, his angel blade appeared in his hand. He cut his flesh and pressed the wound to the sigil. It burst with red light, and a huge gust of wind flowed up from it, shooting into the sky. A moment later, the light died, and the wind with it. Qafsiel stood.

“What did you do?” Namlah asked, eyes wide in awe.

The archangel closed his bloody hand briefly, then opened it again. The wound was gone. “If your design works, Namlah—which I believe it does, as your tree would indicate—I’ve given us fair skies for the next week.”

“You didn’t need a sigil to do that,” Crosil said. “You’re the original Erelim.”

Qafsiel shrugged. “Consider this a test of your new design. I do need something to report about you two when we return to heaven, after all.” He gave them a meaningful look. “Unless, you’d prefer me to report the nature of your relationship.”

Namlah and Crosil paled, which shouldn’t have been possible for angels in vessels. “Please, sir,” Namlah said, “don’t tell anyone. We’ve been hiding this for millennia. I don’t know what they’ll do to us if they find out.”

Qafsiel didn’t understand the love Namlah and Crosil felt for one another, but he’d seen humans express it time and time again. He could see the appeal of it and how it could rapidly become overwhelming. Besides, if Namlah and Crosil had hidden their relationship all these years, he didn’t doubt other angels were as well, and who was he to start a heaven-wide inquisition that would doubtlessly leave heaven divided and bromen?

“I won’t tell anyone,” the archangel said, “but you should be more careful. There are no other archangels who are so sympathetic to the throes of emotion.”

“We’ll keep that in mind, sir,” Crosil said.

“Do.” Qafsiel extended his wings and flew back to the palace. The journey took less than a second, but it gave Qafsiel time to think over the new sigil Namlah and Crosil had designed. Such a design could be invaluable to heaven. The two angels certainly deserved more respect than they received from being in heaven’s only research team.

When Qafsiel landed in Gilgamesh’s bed chambers where he had ordered to sleep, he was surprised to find the king awake and lying on his bedspread. “What are you doing up?” the archangel asked, setting himself on his own bed, which was little more than a reed mat and layers of wool with a blanket.

Gilgamesh glanced at Qafsiel briefly before returning his eyes to the ceiling. “Where do you go every night?” The king’s voice was unusually soft.

“I’ve told you. I share information with my siblings daily.” Qafsiel arched a brow. “Why do you ask?”

“Sometimes you’re gone for hours. I worry.”

“Do you now?” Qafsiel didn’t mean to sound as flippant as he did, but his patience with Gilgamesh had worn thin for today.

Gilgamesh looked at Qafsiel with narrowed eyes. “You would mock my concern for you?”

“No, my apologies. I am merely upset with your decision to go after Humbaba.”

“You could stop me, if you wanted.”

“I have been instructed not to meddle with your decision, only to give counsel and guide you in the right direction. If you would ignore my advice, I have no choice but to shield you from the consequences.”

Gilgamesh frowned and looked up at the ceiling again. “You speak of giving counsel, but you have not even lain with anyone.”

Qafsiel shrugged. “I’ve never had occasion.”

“You must live a boring life.”

“I suppose to you, I might have.” Qafsiel cocked his head to one side. “Why is it you want to bed me?”

Gilgamesh didn’t answer immediately, and when he did, his voice was unusually soft. “You...intrigue me.”

“Oh? How so?”

“You have the form of a man, but you move from place to place in the blink of an eye, alter the fabric of world effortlessly, and always have a...an ethereal air about you—something that just isn’t human. You, Qafsiel, are an enigma, and I want to know what it’s like to lie with such a mysterious creature.”

A corner of the archangel’s lips twitched. “If you’re so intrigued with me, perhaps you’d like to make a deal.”

Gilgamesh turned his body, so he faced Qafsiel squarely. “What kind of deal?”

“If you refrain from any sort of sexual activity for a fortnight, I’ll let you kiss me.”

Gilgamesh grimaced. “That hardly seems fair.”

Qafsiel shrugged, smile widening. “You don’t have to take the deal, but...it might make me love you.”

For a long moment, the king said nothing, then in a low voice, he mumbled, “Very well. I’ll take your deal.”

Qafsiel’s brows rose. “Really? You’re full of surprises.”

“You offered the deal. I took it. You can’t change your mind now.”

The archangel chuckled. “All right. Fair’s fair.”

A slight smile touched Gilgamesh’s lips before he rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. “Be quiet tonight, would you? You shuffled around too much last night.”

With one flap of his wings, Qafsiel came to Gilgamesh’s side and leaned over his form. “As you wish, my lord,” he whispered.

Gilgamesh opened his eyes briefly to look at the archangel, but if he was surprised by their sudden proximity, he didn’t show it. Qafsiel's disappointment at being unable to catch the king off guard turned to surprise when Gilgamesh took the archangel’s hand and closed his eyes. Qafsiel, unsure of what Gilgamesh wanted from the physical contact, remained motionless. Only when the king had fallen into sleep did he realize that comfort could be given from such a simple act. And maybe, just maybe, he allowed himself to think that Gilgamesh’s hand was pleasantly warm.


	6. Into the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the late update, but I'm on spring break this week. So maybe I'll be back to updating consistently and more frequently. 
> 
> Still working on the audio chapters, and I've been informed that my voice is very soothing. I guess that's something.

Qafsiel drew a seventh circle in the dirt and filled it with the First Script as effortlessly as he had the previous six. Making new sigils was something he did to pass the time while Gilgamesh gathered his forces to face Humbaba. Namlah and Crosil couldn’t keep up with his progress. It took them weeks to design one sigil, but Qafsiel could make several in a matter of minutes. Namlah attributed Qafsiel’s affinity for sigil-making to his Erelim nature.

“Is that...a sigil for bees?” Crosil said in disbelief, sitting on the ground next to Namlah.

Qafsiel finished the sigil and stood straight. “Bees are very important creatures. They should be protected.” He sliced his palm with his angel blade and pressed it to the sigil in the dirt. It glowed briefly, then faded into the dark of the night.

Namlah smiled. “I wish all the archangels were like you. You’re so wise and compassionate.”

Qafsiel felt his face heat and recalled such a thing was called blushing. “You think too highly of me, Namlah.”

Crosil gave her a meaningful look. “Yes, I agree.”

Qafsiel should have been offended, but he chuckled. “I do believe Namlah considers you incomparable, Crosil. Have no fear.”

She kissed her love’s cheek in affirmation, and his cheeks reddened. It was an oddly endearing thing, blushing.

Crosil cleared his throat. “So...what are you going to do about Gilgamesh, Qafsiel? Humbaba isn’t the average demon. Just the energy coming off from the forest seems dark and tainted.”

Qafsiel sighed and looked around the empty field he stood in. The nights had been getting darker faster, and there was an undeniable sense of dread that permeated the air. If it was Humbaba’s doing or Lilth’s, he didn’t know. All he knew was that it didn’t bode well for anyone. “I’ll protect Gilgamesh as best I can. As much as it pains me, I am forbidden from interfering with his choices.”

“We could go with you,” Namlah offered.

Qafsiel shook his head. “I need you two to continue searching for Lilith. That’s the main mission.”

Crosil frowned. “I thought the main mission was protecting the prophet.”

“And you two would be more help looking for ways to defend him against his biggest threat: Lilith.”

“Understood, sir,” said Namlah. “When do you set off with Gilgamesh?”

“Dawn.” Qafsiel sighed and ran a hand through his hair. It was a very human thing to do, but at the moment, he wasn’t thinking about anything but his tiredness. Angels couldn’t have even become fatigued by something like this. It had to be an emotional exhaustion—a concept that terrified him to his very core. “Keep looking for Lilith. Report to me what you can.”

Before Namlah or Crosil could reply, Qafsiel spread his wings and flew high into the sky. He looked over the forest he’d be travelling into with Gilgamesh. It was largely uninhabited by humans. A few nomadic bands roamed different regions. None would come across the path to Humbaba unless they strayed leagues away from their territories.

Near the center of the forest, a black haze seemed to rise from a large cedar, more ancient than any other. Humbaba resided there. Whatever he was, it was powerful, and it was malicious.

With one last glance at the black haze, Qafsiel flew back to Gilgamesh’s side.

#

Gilgamesh, after arguing with his counsel, finally agreed to let Qafsiel lead the way. The advisors quite aptly asserted that because Qafsiel knew the forest, he was qualified to lead an expedition. Gilgamesh couldn’t argue with the logic since he had only a vague understanding of where Humbaba was.

At dawn, they set out for the forest—except Gilgamesh wanted to make a stop at the temple first. He led Qafsiel up the ziggurat to the high temple where Shamhat waited for them. “Her Grace has been waiting for you,” she said at the front door, but her words were not directed at Gilgamesh, but Qafsiel. She stared directly at the archangel.

“Me?” Qafsiel said. “Who has been waiting for me?”

“My mother,” Gilgamesh answered and took the angel’s arm. He led him into the clay temple.

It was furnished with stone statues of various gods. Ishtar was the most prominent figure. A large statue of the goddess stood on the far side of the front room. She had wings and feet like that of a bird’s. In her upheld hands she held reeds. Qafsiel stared at her naked form a moment, appreciating the human capacity for creativity.

Shamhat led Gilgamesh and Qafsiel through a door to the right into a small room. A woman stood in its center with her back to the door. Her form was covered in a flowing, red wrap. Hair black as the night fell down her back. Her olive skin was smooth and seemed to glow. Qafsiel hadn’t felt her presence, but now that he saw her, he recognized her soul as that of Lailah’s.

“Lailah?” Qafsiel said in disbelief.

She took a deep breath and turned to face him. Her eyes were amber, blazing like gold. “Hello, Qafsiel.”

He looked over her figure. A ward was carved into her right shoulder, the scar old and silvery. It must have protected her from being sensed by other angels. “ _What are you doing here?_ ” Qafsiel asked in Enochian.

“ _I fell in love with a human man. When I discovered I was heavy with his child, Father commanded that I birth the baby. It was to be a secret until you would be Gilgamesh’s guardian._ ”

“ _But why? Nephilim are—_ ”

“ _Things are not what they seem, Qafsiel. The archangels are corrupt. They spread lies about God’s Word. You are an exception. You are wise. You have watched life unfold. You have seen the truth of our universe_.” She turned her eyes behind Qafsiel to Gilgamesh. “ _Look at my son._ ”

Qafsiel swiveled his head over his shoulder to look at the prophet. Gilgamesh stared back at him, amber eyes the same as his mother’s.

“ _Does he look evil to you?_ ” Lailah asked. “ _He is reckless and arrogant, but he is not evil, as Mikhail or Rafil would have you believe_.”

Qafsiel didn’t know what to think or what to believe. “ _You would ask me to reject my brothers’ claims?_ ”

“ _I would ask that you not accept any claims blindly._ ”

“ _By the same logic, I should question your words as well_.”

She nodded. “ _Of course. I only ask that you look at what is before you. You have spoken with God before. Was it not He who told you that Gilgamesh was your ward and future, a nephilim who is allegedly evil?_ ”

That gave Qafsiel pause. He could not refute her words. God had ordered him to protect Gilgamesh, knowing the prophet was nephilim, and never had Qafsiel heard his Father say that nephilim were evil. Only Mikhail and Rafil had claimed such. “ _Did you want to meet me only to give me doubt?_ ” Qafsiel asked.

“ _I wanted to meet you because heaven is not as it should be_ ,” Lailah said, sadness edging her voice. “ _We are on the brink of chaos, even if you cannot see it. We need compassionate leaders like you, Qafsiel, who do not scorn emotion and truly care about humanity. You are our salvation_.”

Qafsiel didn’t know what to think of such a bold statement. He may have been an archangel, but he was no leader. Mikhail, Rafil, Jibrail—they were the leaders. They could inspire greatness in their followers. Qafsiel was just a watcher.

“ _I shall...consider your words_ ,” the archangel said after a moment’s pause.

Lailah bowed her head slightly. “ _That is all that I ask, brother._ ”

Gilgamesh put a hand on Qafsiel’s shoulder. “Come,” he said in Sumerian. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”

Qafsiel turned with Gilgamesh to leave, but paused when Lailah said, “ _I would request, Qafsiel, that you keep our conversation secret. There’s no telling what Mikhail or Rafil would do if they discovered Gilgamesh was nephilim._ ”

Qafsiel closed his eyes, knowing exactly what his brothers would do to Gilgamesh. A nephilim, according to them, could not continue to exist, not even in soul. They would take the Soul of Solitude from his flesh and destroy it. “ _I will not reveal anything to our brothers, Lailah. My mission, first and foremost, is to protect Gilgamesh._ ”

When he looked back at Lailah, she had a relieved expression. “ _Thank you._ ”

He gave a nod and continued out of the room with Gilgamesh.

#

“It’s a three month journey to Humbaba,” said Qafsiel as he walked a path he’d made in the forest—the plants parting into a road, as if they’d grown that way.

Gilgamesh frowned. “You could simply fly us there.”

“And then what? Kill Humbaba and bring back his head three months early. What would your people think.”

“That I am a god.”

“Or a liar.”

Gilgamesh didn’t reply. They walked in silence for several minutes before Qafsiel broke the quiet. “Lailah is a very important angel,” he said. “Yet if it were ever revealed that she gave birth to a nephilim, she would be executed immediately. You should consider that when you traipse about Uruk, displaying your powers.”

Gilgamesh shifted the pack hanging off his shoulder to a more comfortable position while they walked between a narrow space between two trees. “And what would the angels do to me, if I were discovered?”

“They would destroy your soul, so you could not be reborn after your death.”

“Souls are reborn?”

Qafsiel nodded. “New souls are created every so often, but we can’t keep up with the increasing population growth. We will one day, but until that time, we reincarnate souls. You have been reborn 3,716 times since your soul was created almost two millions years ago.”

Gilgamesh’s brows rose. “I have been 3,716 different people.”

“In a sense.” Qafsiel glanced at Gilgamesh sidelong. “They were all you, in essence, even if they were all different individuals.”

Gilgamesh seemed to think that over a moment, then asked, “Have you seen me in all those lives?”

“Yes. I preside over solitude. Your soul is prone to it. You were impossible to ignore.”

Gilgamesh scoffed. “I’m prone to solitude? I have many friends, and I am always surrounded by people.”

Qafsiel gave the prophet a knowing look. “Perhaps, but it is still possible to feel solitude even when you have company. It’s called ‘loneliness,’ and I can sense it in you. You long for something.”

Gilgamesh was silent, and Qafsiel didn’t press the topic. They walked with little conversation until the sun lowered. Eventually, they came upon a clearing and set up camp for the night. With a wave of his hand, Qafsiel materialized a campfire and a bedroll. Gilgamesh settled on the roll with a sigh. Within minutes, he was asleep.

Qafsiel sat by the fire and closed his eyes, extending his consciousness to heaven. He found his brother quickly. How are you, Jibrail?

 _Busy_ , Jibrail said, his exhaustion coming through the connection. _Lailah disappeared for a few hours, so no one but me was around to deliver souls unto newborns._

Qafsiel wanted to tell his brother why she’d been missing, but he didn’t want to burden Jibrail with knowledge like that, even if he did trust him with it. It was best Jibrail remain ignorant and never be at risk to face the consequences should their brothers hear of Gilgamesh’s heritage. _Are you too busy to talk?_ Qafsiel asked.

_I’m never too busy for you. How is your ward?_

_Stubborn and arrogant as ever. He is determined to bed me._

_Really?_ Jibrail sounded almost amused. _Why would he want to do that?_

_He claimed he wants to know what it would be like to lie with an angel._

_Would you lie with him?_

Qafsiel’s brows furrowed. _Of course not._

_Why not?_

_Because he is a human, and I am an archangel._

_And?_

Qafsiel couldn’t believe his brother was even considering such a thing. _Is this one of your jokes?_

 _I’m serious, Qafsiel._ Jibrail’s tone held no irony. _You won’t have occasion to experience intercourse while in heaven._

_You speak blasphemy, Jibrail._

_There are no laws against copulation. It is not a sin. Just because you are an angel does not mean you cannot enjoy the pleasures of the flesh._

Understanding struck Qafsiel. _You speak as if you have enjoyed such pleasures._

_I have, and I think you should try the experience._

Before Qafsiel could respond, Jibrail continued, _I must go, but, Qafsiel, it’s okay to enjoy yourself sometimes. Earth is a marvelous place. Make the most of it._

The connection broke, leaving Qafsiel with his troubled thoughts. He glanced at Gilgamesh’s sleeping body, then looked into the fire. Not for the first time, he questioned his Father’s true intentions and his own ideas about angels. What really separated angels from humans? Angels were immortal and powerful, but they could be killed. They could feel pain and pleasure and love and hate and fear and anger, just as humans did. Ultimately, only power and lifespan differentiated celestials and mortal. But neither was better than the other or more prone to virtue or sin. Each individual had their own interests and choices in life. They all had free will—thought.

Gilgamesh gasped awake, interrupting Qafsiel’s speculations. The archangel went to the prophet’s side, sensing his distress. Gilgamesh breathed heavily, cold sweat on his skin. He sat up and held his face in his hands.

“What’s wrong?” Qafsiel asked.

“You were dead,” Gilgamesh rasped, his voice breaking on the last word. “I saw you die. There was so much blood, and you were crying.”

Qafsiel’s gut clenched in fear. “Nothing is certain.”

Gilgamesh lowered his hands from his fave. Never had he looked so despondent and afraid. His amber eyes held back tears, and his lower lips trembled when he exhaled a shaky breath. Without thinking, Qafsiel pulled him into an embrace. Gilgamesh hesitated before wrapping his arms around the archangel.

“I’m alive,” Qafsiel said. “See?”

Gilgamesh turned his face into Qafsiel’s neck. “But you won’t be forever.”

“Nothing lasts forever, but I am alive now. Is that not enough?”

Gilgamesh sighed and leaned into Qafsiel. “Am I sending you to your death by pursuing Humbaba?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. It’s up to you to decide whether or not you want to stop now.”

Gilgamesh pulled away enough to look into Qafsiel’s eyes. “I need to see more visions first.”

“As you wish.” Qafsiel started to rise, but Gilgamesh held him in place. The archangel stared at the prophet curiously.

“Can you...stay with me?” Gilgamesh asked haltingly. “Just until I fall asleep.”

Maybe it was the vulnerability in the prophet’s eyes that had Qafsiel settle himself on the bedroll. “Very well.”

Gilgamesh lay back and pulled on Qafsiel’s arm until the archangel lay beside him. It was almost frightening how easy it felt for Qafsiel to wrap an arm around Gilgamesh’s shoulder and pull them closer together. The prophet rested his head under Qafsiel’s chin and breathed deeply. There was something oddly comforting about holding Gilgamesh and feeling his body flush with Qafsiel’s own. Perhaps this was the humans’ fascination with touch. It was a sharing of warmth and strength and reassurance.

After a few minutes, Gilgamesh fell back into sleep. Qafsiel remained beside him the whole night.


	7. Explode

Namlah and Crosil appeared on the morning of Qafsiel’s and Gilgamesh’s fourth day traveling. Qafsiel had heard them coming from miles away, but Gilgamesh was surprised by the appearance of the two angels who’d decided to show themselves by hovering over his bedroll while he roused himself. “Qafsiel, there are two angels watching me,” he muttered groggily, staring up at Namlah and Crosil. “Please tell me they’re yours.”

Qafsiel smiled slightly. He was sitting by the fire, watching the flames lick up toward the sky. “Gilgamesh, this is Namlah and Crosil.”

The prophet’s brows rose. “The ones who are in love?”

Namlah and Crosil narrowed their eyes, bodies tensing.

“Stand down,” Qafsiel said, not pulling his eyes away from the fire. “He knows from visions, but neither he nor I have revealed your secrets.”

Namlah and Crosil visibly relaxed. “The prophet is nephilim, Qafsiel,” said Namlah. “You failed to mention that.”

Qafsiel shrugged. “It was irrelevant, and the fewer angels who know, the better. We can’t have Mikhail or Rafil ripping apart a prophet, can we?”

Crosil folded his arms across his chest. “It’s not irrelevant. This changes everything.”

Qafsiel looked up from the fire to Crosil. “Oh? How so?”

“Nephilim have grace,” Namlah said. “That means he can learn how to use it.”

“I have what?” Gilgamesh asked and stood. 

Qafsiel waved his hand out over the fire and bedroll. They disappeared. “Grace is the celestial energy that fuels angelic power. It is what gives me the ability to control the natural world as I do. It gives me the wings you cannot see and the form possessing this body. Without my grace, I would not be an angel.”

“What would you be?” Gilgamesh asked.

“A fallen angel.” Qafsiel stood. “Human.”

Crosil looked pensive. “If you taught him how to use his grace, he would stand a chance against Humbaba without your assistance.”

Gilgamesh’s brows rose. “I quite like that idea.”

Namlah looked the prophet over slowly. “Yes, but it would take months for him to train to a level where he could smite demons.”

Qafsiel stared at Gilgamesh a moment in thought. “If you are willing to learn, Gilgamesh, I will teach you how to utilize your grace.”

“Please. I would like to learn.” Gilgamesh’s respectful tone was not what Qafsiel had expected, but the archangel wasn’t about to question it.

“Very well,” Qafsiel said. “We can begin training today, but first, I’d like to hear what Namlah and Crosil flew all this way for.”

Namlah’s expression was grave. “Lilith still hasn’t showed herself, and Crosil thought of why.”

“Some angelic weapons require grace to work,” Crosil explained. “We think she’s waiting to capture an angel to make the weapon she stole work.”

Qafsiel turned his eyes to Gilgamesh, understanding why God had tasked him with protecting the prophet from Lilith. “She wants the prophet.”

Namlah and Crosil both looked at Gilgamesh. “A power source that’s easier to subdue than a true angel,” Namlah said, “but strong enough to power a weapon.”

Gilgamesh’s brows furrowed. “Who is Lilith, and what kind of weapon is she using?”

“Lilith is the strongest demon in the world,” Crosil said with a grimace. “She has an angelic weapon she would use against us, but we don’t know what weapon she has.”

“And you think she wants me to power it?”

Namlah nodded. “You would be the most logical choice.”

“All the more reason to train you in defending yourself with grace,” said Qafsiel. He glanced between Namlah and Crosil. “Do you have anything more to report?”

Namlah nodded. “Just one more thing.” She crouched down and drew a circle in the dirt with her finger. Qafsiel approached curiously as she drew out the unfamiliar sigil.

“I got the idea,” she said, “when you mentioned the manipulation of time, a power which only Erelim possess...but you knew that obviously.”

Qafsiel watched Namlah take her angel blade from a fold of her wrap and cut her palm. When she placed her hand over the sigil, it burst with green light, then the familiar feeling of time stopping fell over Qafsiel. “You two never cease to amaze me,” he said.

Namlah smiled and stood. She tucked her blade into her wrap and dusted off her clothing. Gilgamesh looked around, seeming to take note of the silence of the birds and the unnatural stillness of the trees and air. 

“It’s not a worldwide freeze,” Crosil said. “It’s isolated to an area of about forty steps, and it ends after a minute of worldly time, then the time lost catches up to the frozen environment in an instant. It’s enough to stop a nearby enemy, however, and make a decent escape.”

Namlah added, “I thought you should teach it to the prophet for emergencies.”

Qafsiel nodded. “I will. Thank you very much.”

She smiled widely, the expression lighting up her entire face. “Of course.”

Qafsiel observed the sigil as time started moving again. “How did you ensure that all of us would not be affected?”

Namlah drew another circle in the dirt. “Stop time,” she said, then spelled it in the First Script. “That’s the main purpose. Then the instruction are ‘Gather spare energy from the environment and stop time for everything except those with grace.’ Names don’t work because—I would assume—they are relative and change. You have to find something that defines yourself and whomever else you want to keep free, but excludes the object you want to stop.”

Qafsiel glanced at Gilgamesh. “I’ll teach him about the sigils today.”

Crosil and Namlah seemed pleased by the assurance. “Is there anything else you need?” Namlah asked as she stood straight. 

“No, thank you.”

The angels bowed slightly before spreading their wings and taking off. It happened faster than Gilgamesh could blink, but he seemed unfazed by their sudden disappearance. Perhaps he was becoming accustomed to it.

“All right,” Qafsiel said, looking at Gilgamesh with a slight smile. “Let’s get started.”

#

Eighteen shattered rocks, sixteen burned logs, and forty-two melted spots of earth later, Gilgamesh still hadn’t mastered the art of dismantling an object atom by atom. Sumerian didn’t have a word for “atom,” so Qafsiel had chose to call it “dust.” Gilgamesh hadn’t yet grasped the concept of microscopic units of material comprising everything around him. It showed in how the rocks and wood he attempted to break into individual atoms combusted in his hands. His worst—and most frequent—attempts resulted in the ground turning to radioactive, melted earth, which Qafsiel had to reverse in order to protect the nearby wildlife.

“You’re not connecting with the rock,” Qafsiel said, drawing various protective sigils in the dirt. “You’re trying to force it into dust without feeling all the fine ties that hold it together first.”

Gilgamesh sat nearby with a stone in his hands, eyes closed and brows knitted in concentration. “I can do this just fine.” A second later, the stone exploded, sending shards flying into the trees and Gilgamesh’s skin.

Qafsiel sighed and waved his hand out in the prophet’s direction. Gilgamesh’s wounds healed as the shards returned from the tree line to solidify into a whole stone again at the archangel’s feet. Qafsiel picked it up and ran his thumb over its smooth surface. “I think that’s enough for today,” he muttered and glanced up at the darkening sky. With a wave of his hand, a campfire and bedroll appeared before him. 

Gilgamesh grimaced. “At this rate, we’ll never make it to Humbaba. We didn’t travel at all today.”

Qafsiel regarded the prophet tiredly. “If you get to the level where you can smite a demon on your own, I will fly you to Humbaba.”

Gilgamesh’s brows rose. “What happened to ensuring the people don’t become suspicious from an impossibly swift journey?”

Qafsiel let the stone in his hand turn to dust, and then to tiny particles invisible to the human eye. “At the rate at which you’re learning, we won’t have that problem.”

Gilgamesh narrowed his eyes. “Are all angels this encouraging?”

“No, most of us do not encourage each other.”

“I was being sarcastic, Qaf.”

Qafsiel was quiet a moment in thought. “I see. I should have known. I shall endeavor to pick up on more social cues from now on.”

Gilgamesh shook his head and sat on his bedroll by the fire. “It’s been a fortnight, you know.” 

Qafsiel arched a brow. “What do you mean?”

Gilgamesh gave the archangel a meaningful look. “You said if I abstained from any sexual activities for a fortnight, I could have a kiss.”

Qafsiel stared at Gilgamesh a moment, looking for any hint of lie. There was none. He was honest in his implication of abstinence. 

“Very well.” The archangel walked over to the prophet and sat beside him. “You can have your kiss.”

Gilgamesh gripped Qafsiel’s shoulders to hold him back. “Wait.” He pushed Qafsiel onto his back—or rather, the archangel let him. “I want to see what my options are.”

Qafsiel gave Gilgamesh an odd look. “Your options?”

“You never said the kiss had to be on the lips.”

Qafsiel narrowed his eyes. “And I’m an archangel who could throw you off at any time.”

Gilgamesh skimmed his fingers over Qafsiel’s chest, sending unexpected shivers through the archangel. “You look beautiful beneath this flesh.” He ran his thumb over Qafsiel’s hip. “Althought, this body is enticing as well.”

Qafsiel felt a strange rush of heat through him. It wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, as Gilgamesh continued to feel over the archangel’s firm abdominal muscles, the heat became oddly pleasant. It frightened Qafsiel. He caught Gilgamesh’s wrists and said, “Please stop toying with me.”

Gilgamesh turned his hands under Qafsil’s wrists and pushed up to switch the hold. He pushed the archangel’s wrists into the bedroll. His eyes bored into Qafsiel, their amber depths holding only adoration. “As you wish,” he whispered before leaning down and bringing their lips together.

Qafsiel remembered the feel of Gilgamesh’ lips from the first time they kissed, but this time was different. There was no audience to watch them. No show they had to act. It was just them. 

Gilgamesh was soft and gentle at first, as if coaxing Qafsiel into the kiss. The archangel found that he was all too willing to give into the prophet. His heart hammered in his chest, and he felt warm to the tips of his toes. Gilgamesh cupped his cheek and slid his tongue between Qafsiel’s lips experimentally. Almost instinctively, Qafsiel’s lips parted, letting Gilgamesh in.

The rest of the word seemed to fade. Qafsiel’s hands threaded through Gilgamesh’s hair. Their tongues slid together deliberately. Gilgamesh explored Qafsiel’s mouth with slow motions times with the archangel’s pace.

Qafsiel knew that he should have stopped. This was forbidden and wrong, but as Gilgamesh stretched over him, caressed his neck and chest, rational thought escaped the archangel.

The prophet settled between Qafsiel’s thighs, and their hips met. The moment the hardness beneath Gilgamesh’s wrap met Qafsiel’s, a sharp exhale escaped the archangel. Little waves of pleasure rushed through him, and when he arched his hips up, Gilgamesh moaned low in his throat.

It was like ice water.

In less than a second, Qafsiel flew a league away. Away from Gilgamesh. Away from the warmth of the man’s body. Away from temptation.

Qafsiel leaned against the trunk of a tree, staring into the darkness. His breath came hard, even though he had no need for oxygen. He glanced down at the bulge in his wrap. Angels weren’t supposed to become aroused. They had no need for sex. The smart thing to do would have been to direct the blood elsewhere and correct the neurotransmitters in his brain. Instead, he touched his erection through the fabric of his clothes. Those waves of pleasure rolled through him again. His breath caught.

As if of their own volition, his hands pried away his wrap, leaving him bare. He took his erection in his hand and tried a few experimental strokes before letting go of his inhibitions. His hips moved with the pace of his hand, and he suddenly understood the appeal of repetitiveness in copulation. Each stroke brought a new wave of pleasure until he was filled with a euphoria he’d never experienced before.

When his knees weakened, he leaned back into the tree. His thoughts turned to Gilgamesh and the way the prophet’s lips felt on his. He recalled the feeling when their hips had pressed together. But mostly, he thought of those amber eyes looking at him with honest adoration. 

Qafsiel came with a soft gasp, his hips slamming back into the tree and cracking it. The pleasure was overwhelming, making his legs wobble and head light. 

Then it faded. And he was left in the dark with only his troubled thoughts for company.


End file.
